


Colors We Love With

by alernun



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Asexual!Charles, Charles Needs Prozac, Contemplated Rape, Disabled Sex, Erik Growling In Germanic Languages, Experimental Style, Fluff, Language, M/M, Sexual Content, Shameful Debauching of Cain's Old Car, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:38:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2078850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alernun/pseuds/alernun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of some of my best Cherik drabbles in canon chronological order. (I'm completing the move from ff.net to here).There's something here for the sunshine and the rain lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colors We Love With

**Author's Note:**

> "Kurwa" means "fuck", "dirty slut", or "whore" in Polish. The moooree you knowww. Also in case you're raising your fandom eyebrows about Polish instead of German, I have this headcanon where Polish is the language of Erik's humanity, since that's the language he and Magda probably spoke when he tried to make a go of it with her after the camps. (Whereas German is the language of pain, Schmitt, and angry Nazis). 
> 
> Anyway, please review! I'd love to know your favorites. : )

**A Basement Gym: The Small Hours**

Thirty-four.  
Thirty-five.  
Thirty-six.

Erik's chin reaches the bar with ease, as if he were standing on tip toe. His triceps bulge with the effort and it burns. Pleasantly. Sometimes the CIA sponsored a place with a gym and sometimes not. He wonders if Charles notices how parallel this circumstance is to his mood.

Thirty-seven.  
Thirty-eight.

Charles. Erik pauses, and swings his legs up so that they are perpendicular to his trunk, feeling the slithering heat in his abs as he holds them taught. His heartbeat quickens.

The telepath had been sleeping for two hours now. He knew this, because he'd seen the long brown eyelashes flutter, then fall, flutter, and then fall for longer in his peripheral vision as their owner fought a valiant battle with boredom and fatigue over fresh genetic publications. At least, that's what he thought he'd said...Erik had been…distracted.

Thirty-nine.  
Forty.  
Forty-one.

By the blue eyes.

Forty-two.  
Forty-three.

And the tweedy trousers.

Forty-four.

The parted lips.

Forty-five-six-seven-eight-nine…

The hair.

"Fifty."

Erik grunts out the nice round number and drops to the mat below, feeling flushed but not from the exercise. He runs a hand through his hair to straighten it, then leans against the wall and nurses a water bottle, not really thirsty…but loath to go back upstairs.

This hotel had a gym…and their room had one king sized bed.  
They'd laughed about it when they saw, Charles putting forth his tremulous little chuckle and raising one eyebrow before flopping down with his duffel and digging through for an unhealthily large pile of books. _"I hope you're not one to steal the covers; my feet are like blocks of ice!"_ It had been cavalier …casual.

But then they'd both chosen their sides, and stayed as far on either end as possible. They spoke, joked, were companionable…but never looked at each other straight. And then he'd gone to sleep. Above the covers. In all his silly clothes.

Erik runs a towel along the back of his neck, and crushes the plastic between his palms.

It's not that he was shy. In rare moments of reflection, (when a small victory or a sudden surge of manic energy gave him the courage), Erik knew he was a natural extrovert. A flirt even, like his father…but he was not his father. He had not even managed to keep his family name.

He was Erik Lehnsherr, created by Schmitt, forged anew in pain, molded from steel, run by gears like clockwork. Erik did not have friends. He had marks. He fucked, but did not have "lovers." There was no "sexual tension," because when he wanted something, or someone, he took it-…them. And that was that.  
Erik stands, and arches his back in a long, languid stretch, hoping this will resolve the kinks in the shoulder blades. He tries not to think of soft white fingers folded delicately across a cardigan-clad stomach, and just how apt they would be for the purpose. He tries to tell himself that when he does go upstairs, he will sleep, and if he can't, he'll shake Charles awake and force those red lips to accept a bruising kiss…and the rest of it. He tries to believe that, should the gears turn that direction, the tension will be gone, and the other man's rage…his pain, (or his pleasure. Erik isn't sure…) will not matter to him.

He tries.  
He fails.  
And the next morning, when Charles Xavier asks about the dark circles under his eyes, he lies and makes sure he sounds pleasant doing so. The telepath liked to worry.

**Meine Theorie**

I could take all of you in and not even flinch. And you'd do it, wouldn't you...you'd like to do it. I know you, Lab Rat. Frat Boy. Charles. You're the telepath, but I know your mind without that luxury.

You want to fuck me.

You'd be darling at first. Maybe try to charm me with one of your mutation lines. You'd risk my temper, doing that. You'd bruise my intelligence with false Oxonian velvet and risk bottoming rough yourself, just to see if I liked the pain.  
I don't. I don't like pain. I've never...I don't.

...But it would hurt a little, wouldn't it? If you ever managed to get me on my back. It would take at least an hour, with your scientist's thorough foreplay and polite dithering. Eventually, you'd have to stop being polite. You'd have to take the vaseline I've already half-used up on you, take it from the nightstand, slick your own cock...you'd want to do it yourself...yes..  
.  
You'd have to push into my asshole, and it would burn...but I've had worse...so much worse...and Charles...you'd _have_ to groan.

And then what would you do, white-faced and wide-eyed and sweating above me, buried balls deep and speechless like it was some sort of religious rite. Worth anything. Sacred.

You're you, so you'd find a way to talk. You'd spout foolish things. You'd tell me I was beautiful, which is not the word, and say that you loved me, which is not advisable, (which is not _possible_ ),you would thank me over and over in all your perfect German, the harsh sounds somehow soothing on your tongue-  
Even as you pushed deeper. Even as you fucked me faster and harder then you've ever dared fuck one of your human girls...you'd ram into me almost like we were at war, bite at my throat where you meant to kiss, you wouldn't be able to look at me, because I'd see the wilderness that's not supposed to be yours, and I'd clench around you hard, to let you know I've wanted this...needed this...to let you know that I know you, Charles Xavier-

I'd come just like that, I think. No hands, just pinned on your pretty, thick cock, choking on your name.

**Most Days**

You're always terribly worried that I'm poking around in your head. Most people have no mental barriers, you know. It's all savage vanity thinly-veiled in gossamer social mores, and some aren't even heedful that far. But you...  
My constant soldier. Erik. My Erik. Your shields are innate, impossible, and self-taught. Conjured by that absurd intelligence and maintained by the chip-no-the gaping wound on your shoulder.

You're bloody stubborn and like Fort Knox, you are, and there's a vanity in that too, truly.

I wonder...do you ever wonder, as I bite my lip and keep my distance, keep and keep on keeping out-Christ.Do you ever wonder what _I'm_ thinking?  
Most days, I feel like a fool. And not because I burn the coffee, and you make it better. Not because I can't wrestle or shoot a gun, and not because you beat me at chess. I rather like that, even though you laugh at me, in fact I adore that you-  
Oh never mind. It's not those things. It's that every single thing that you do, and still more what you deny me, makes me love you more. I love you so very, very much Erik. I'm smart enough to know that. I've felt enough hearts, dangling on insipid, perpetual psychic fishing line, to know what a live one beats like, and I know that mine's alive now, that it wasn't before...and that now, it beats for you.  
But...you don't want it, do you? Good joke, that. Frankenstein's Monster (as if the nomen were at all appropriate in the first place), has no idea what to do when the tables turn. You probably don't even realize the irony,...that you've found, remade... _reforged_ my heart, only to blink quizzically at it in stunned silence, at a loss.

And you are. At a loss.  
Because even beside you,  
With, or below, or within you, yes even then, my darling...  
Your soldier's silence starves my longing mind.  
Erik. God...Erik. It hurts.

It hurts like dying, to love you.

**Words Worth A Picture**

" _Here?_ You want to do it here?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Ah, mind the sweater-"

"Shut up, Charles. Bend over."

"Christ...this...this was Cain's Mustang-"

"Hnm. 'S not using it."

"The children-

"Can't drive. Probably don't even know you have a whole parking lot full of cars in the basement. God Charles what are these fool things you're wearing?"

"They were a gift! We're not all inclined to trade silk for government issue surplus cotton-ah...oh-"

"Feel better than silk?"

"Uhmmm...stupid...question...are you going to be able to, I mean the angle is-"

"I'd stop worrying about what I can't do, Charles, and start worrying about what I _will_ do. Now lick them. Come on, all three. Get them wet."

"Oh...oh God...yes-"

"That's what I like to hear. None of your theorist's skepticism now, Charles. Spread for me."

"Ah...Erik...please just-"

"Just what?"

"You _know_ what you bloody tease-ah!"  
"Just that?"

"...Yessss..."

"You like that?"

"Oh..."  
"Tell me how much you like it."

"I-I...ah... _fuck_.I like it, Erik I like it...put...put it in."

"So soon?"

"Yes."

"Heh. Why Charles-"

"Shut up, just shut up and do it."

"Do what? I want to hear you say it."

" _Fuckme._ "

xxx xxx xxx

"Urghmm... _Charles_..."

"Hcc..."

"It's...okay?"

"Yes."

"Kurwa.-"

"Erik...that's...ah, that's...the idea-"

"You're so tight-"

" _Move._ "

"Fuck...fuck...brudn-...dziwka"

"Oh...oh...yes...yes...yes-only for you,...only for you-"

"Come for me, Charles. Come all over the hood of this ugly car-"

"Ah...ow...f-fuck me harder then."

"My _God_..."

"Hnn...hnnn...hcc-...ahhh...ow...ow...Don't stop...don't stop...don't you dare stop Erik...ahh Erik I'm...I'm..."

"I can't go any deeper-"

"ERIK-"

" _Ugrmmmmm._ "

xxx xxx xxx

"Should we...clean it, do you think?"

"You know what? No. Fuck it."

"Charles! That's positively inconsiderate of you."

"Oh hush."

 **Type A**

I haven't had an orgasm for eight years now, and sometimes I think it will drive you mad. You take the helmet off now, unless things are really horrid (and when they're that bad, Erik,...when it's on, I cant muster the strength to look at you, let alone force my way through), so it's everywhere like this Virginia fog, a miasma of guilt, and hope, and aspiration.

I'm tired of choking on it. So I am letting you in. Live it. Take it. Feel it. Feel the stuttering in my chest as you claim a liberty no one else dares, and pick me up with easy strength out of the wheelchair. Let my fingertips trace the testament into the sinews of your throat. Let me hold on to you as you hold onto me. Let me have your heavy-lidded magnesium starlight eyes, let me have them the whole length of your villa...all the way out to the hot tub you bought for me.  
Throw me onto the grass. Yes you heard me, I said throw. I won't break. I won't _break._ It doesn't hurt, you see? Touch the sound I make as the wool slides up across my aureola...and then make me take your thumb into my mouth.  
Take the rest of it off. All of it. Slow. Then watch me for a while, sprawled out and naked on your lawn. I like this part the best. Being watched. I love reaching out, and seeing my youth's chimera embrace you, manifest only because you will never be able to help it.

See me. Show me. Know me. Shed your own clothes with all that killer's confidence and throw them at my useless feet. Stand before me, expectant and still and waiting.

Feel the sweet tearing of my teeth into my lips, the water in my eyes, the gag I try to swallow, as I moan around the five languid stabs of your cock.  
I am weightless in the water. Not dead like stone, but your buoy or a dream. You're kissing me, and Erik, you are a fantastic kisser. Your chest is against my chest, your fingers wage a war with my hairline, and you're getting off by rubbing against my navel.

You're the quietest man I know, and you want me so badly, you're making noise.  
Erik. _Erik_

Hold me. Hear me. Mark me.

"C-charles...Ich...lieb-"

And Christ...you do.

 

**Love and Carbohydrates**

_April 19th, 1980-8:43pm_

"LeMaga scrap corporation, how may I direct your call?"

"Hi Mr. Toad, I know you're supposed to tell me you aren't the bad guys, but I really need to talk to Mr. Magnet...er, Mag-net-o now. Please."

"Who is this? How did you get this number?"  
"I sawwww it. Stop yelling."

"Toad? Who is that on the line?"

"Sir, it appears we've had a breach. Some mutant undoubtedly masquerading as a little girl-"

"Magneto! Mr Mag..neto make Toad stop talking for a sec!"

"Jean? Is that you?"

"You remembered!"

"Of course I remembered-Toad, it's fine. One of Charles's students."

" _You gave out your direct line to the entire school?_ "

"I did not, I assure you. But Jean here is a very gifted youngster."

"I saw it, I itooold/i you. The Professor thinks about these numbers all the time."

"I'll just bet he does. Hang up, Toad."

"…"

"Toad."

"Roger that, Sir."

"Now, Jean, why don't you tell me what's happened. Is something wrong over there? Is Charles alright? What about the others?"

"Heeee. You call him Charles all funny."

"...I'll take your amusement as a sign that everything's okay then, yes?"

"Oh we're all fine, all fine but...b-but..."

"Out with it, come on. And isn't it a little late for you to be wandering around the grounds, making unauthorized phone calls to America's Most Wanted?"

"I'm this many now, I'll have you know! Er...six, I mean. I'm a whole six, and I called because I need to know about pancakes."

"...Pancakes."

"Yeah. They're the Professor's favorite, but you know that. And…and he's writing a big book he says, and it's gonna be a real book, Mr. Magnet, with small print and no pictures and he's all worried about it and...well, don't you think that pancakes would help?"

"Pancakes would be a very good start, Jean dear, but really he's beyond help in that state. Now what is so pressing, in the pancake category, that you took this enormous strategic risk and found the step stool?"

"Well duuhhh. He looovess youuu! Which probably means you make him pancakes all the time! You're prolly like a pancake GENIUS! Why are grown-ups so dumb?"

"...heh. You know, I couldn't tell you. I certainly don't know many grown-ups who were smart or brave enough at your age to tackle a pancake operation by themselves."

"Oh Magnet, I don't think I can do it! I c-can't read all the words on the box."

"Sh. Of course you can. Do you have the skillet?"

"Uh-huh. AND I turned the dial!"

"Only half way, I hope."

"Er, no."

"Lower it a bit then, otherwise they'll be ash cakes."

"Kay."

"Did you mix the ingredients in a big bowl?"

"W-well, some of them...but I don't know how many eggs to put into the powdery stuff, and the measuring cup for the water is too far up high."

"Then like all great Pancake Generals, you'll have to improvise. First of all it's one egg, I'd bet my life on that, so go on, and don't let any shells get in."

"...allll...right. No shells!"

"Fantastic. Now can you reach the spigot of the sink?"

"Yu-huh."

"Well, if you're using Bisquick-"

"Yeah! I AM! How did you knowww? Are...are you like me, Mr. Magnet? Can you read brains too?"

"Hah! No, and thank the lord for that. But yeah, Bisquick calls for one cup of water per recipe, and you may be a whole six, but you've still got half-sized hands. So about...three hand-cuppings should do you."

"So I should scoop the water in? With my hands? Isn't that gross?"

"Jean, all is fair in love and carbohydrates. Do as I say, I promise he won't mind."

"You're real strange. And you use big words."

"If that were all that made me strange, dear, I'd be making all of YOU breakfast for dinner. Now you know to melt the butter in the pan?"

"Mm-hmmmm. I think I can do it from here! I knocked down the bucket full of spoons and stuff with my yo yo before and stole a spatula while Mr. Cassidy wasn't looking."

"Perfect. Remind Charles to send you to me when you graduate, yes?"

"You're silly, Mr. Magnet."

"Maybe not so silly as you think. Oh and Jean?"

"Yah-huh?"

"Crush up some of his yogurt pretzels and mix them with the batter."

"Ewwww. Whyyyy?"

"Because, my dear, I am a pancake genius."


End file.
